Procrastination isn't my bag. I hanker after swift decisions, clear direction and a strong dose of gumption. So perhaps it's not surprising that up there on my movie pedestal are a collection of characters that cut to the chase. That two of these are essentially homicidal maniacs is, I assure you, simply an unfortunate coincidence and obviously not a characteristic to be admired. But their glorious efficiency most certainly is.

My first encounter with the brutal resourcefulness of Louis Mazzini, played with such steely nonchalance by the dulcet-toned Dennis Price, was many years ago when my grandparents put on what they'd call "proper comedy", in the form of the Ealing epic Kind Hearts and Coronets.

I was bowled over. Here was a man with a plan. Yes, OK, it was a fairly dastardly plot to bump off every family member who stood between him and the title of Duke of Chalfont (his drastic revenge for them snubbing his mother on account of her marriage to an opera singer), but the fact remained: it was strategically magnificent. Looking down at my colour-coded revision timetable and bullet-pointed essay plans, it struck a chord.

What I admired most about Mazzini was his unflappable calm. Whether popping down to the countryside to blow up the mild mannered Henry D'Ascoyne, or poisoning the yawn-worthy Reverend Lord Henry D'Ascoyne over a glass of the best, he remains cool as a cucumber. There'd be no wild hair-ruffling and muttering of expletives if Mazzini's exam paper was a shocker. Oh no. His entire demeanour as he executes not only his plan but also pretty much his entire family is the epitome of that marvellous wartime maxim "Keep calm and carry on". Although, perhaps in Mazzini's case, it's more like "Keep calm and carry on killing." Which is obviously taking ruthless efficiency a bit too far.

That Mazzini is also something of an archer (he bumped off balloon-bound Lady Agatha D'Ascoyne with a well placed arrow) is another neat coincidence: I, too, am often found wielding a bow, although when taking to the shooting line I generally try to channel the suave genius of Disney's Robin Hood, albeit without the stork rig-out.

But when I am not moonlighting as a toxophilic fox, I am continuing to learn from the masters of efficiency. Since striking out into the world of work, I have become ever more aware of the need to eradicate faff and say no to bumbling. Little wonder then that Miranda Richardson's Queenie is high on my list of role models. Here is a woman who knows her own mind. The fact that her mind is vaguely unhinged is but a trifle. She is clearly the one wearing the pants in that royal court, no matter what the scheming rivals Blackadder and Melchett like to think. However while I, too, have been known to offer a few firm directions (although without threatening a bit of the choppy choppy), I suspect the only traits I truly share with Queenie are an implausibly high-pitched voice and a tendency to get a little aerated when obstructions appear – a dearth of teabags being a particular bugbear.

Perhaps it is just as well. But cold-hearted killers aside, the girl truly after my own heart as deadlines draw near, page plans are torn up and my colour-coded to-do list comes a cropper is Kate Beckinsale as the brilliant, brisk Flora Poste of Cold Comfort Farm. Orphaned at 19, the quick witted, unemotional Flora sets forth to "live off her relatives" at their woeful Sussex abode. Bemoaning the barren cows and farren pigs, the sickly stench of the sukebind flowers and, of course, Ada Doom's ceaseless cry of "I saw something nasty in the woodshed", the entire Starkadder clan is wallowing in a quagmire of chaos and misery. Until Flora breezes in.

Forthright and utterly unfazed by all manner of bizarre rural tribulation, she quite simply sorts it all out. While I wouldn't be seen dead in some of her shapeless vintage togs, there's no denying I'm a fan of her wit and wisdom. Whether teaching the young mother of a nascent jazz quartet the nuances of the contraceptive diaphragm ("All you need is a little rubber bowler hat to stop it happening again"), fixing up weddings ("I've always liked the phrase, 'A marriage has been arranged.' When I feel like it, I'll arrange one") or simply honing her literary ambitions ("When I am 53, I mean to write a novel as good as Persuasion, but with a modern setting") there is no calamity or intrigue that Poste with her "higher common sense" cannot iron out. Who wouldn't want to be so perfectly phlegmatic?

It's a work in progress – after all those are sturdy shoes to fill – and quite frankly sometimes there's nothing for it but to give in to the McCartney/Bowie soundtrack in my head and salute another Hollywood hero: Frances Halliday, played with aplomb by Greta Gerwig in Frances Ha. Haphazard and hopeful, she tumbles from mishap to mishap, arms flailing, hair flying. But make no mistake about it: this girl knows where she wants to go, even if she hasn't quite got a grip on how to get there. In the end, she does get there, proving that even the sketchiest of stratagems can get things back on track. And when life bowls a blinder, that's no cold comfort.